


we've been smoking all day

by dabihawkss



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: M/M, Mpreg, mpreg crowley
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-23
Updated: 2019-07-23
Packaged: 2020-07-11 19:29:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19933303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dabihawkss/pseuds/dabihawkss
Summary: crowley is congested and aziraphale is addicted to lush sales





	we've been smoking all day

"You've got too many books," Crowley drawls, trails his fingers down the spines and tries to adjust so his gait so he doesn't look so damn -awkward- when he's prowling around the shop. "I'm -congested,- angel, all because of -your- bloody baby -- "

Aziraphale shushes him from across the store; he's on the phone, rambling with a regular about a new shipment of alchemy tomes he's gotten. Crowley slinks up behind him, wraps his arms around him and starts to undo the buttons of his shirt -- the angel makes an embarrassing squawk, bats him away ("Terribly sorry, Mrs. Dunham, a bird's gotten in -- ") and hangs up the phone with an aggravated 'tsk.'

"I'm -terribly- sorry your nose is stuffed up, Crowley, but can you -please- not fuss with me when I'm on the -phone- -- " Crowley ignores him, snakes his arms around his neck and presses into him, something that makes Aziraphale quiet more often than not. 

"Dust your store, you old lazy bat," and the blonde brings his hand down to Crowley's stomach while rolling his eyes. The bump is still small -- Crowley's only fifteen weeks, if Aziraphale's math is anything to go by. You can only tell that anything's there by the tiny curve below his navel; Crowley tells him that there are tiny, flickering movements every now and then ("like a worm," and Aziraphale had looked at him with nothing but distaste) and to be perfectly honest, he can't wait to feel them -- the babe's too small at the moment, though, so he settles for keeping his fingers where they're at, stroking small circles against skin that's gradually getting stretched tighter and tighter.

Crowley smells -good-; occasionally his scent is bitter, like brimstone, but now he smells like some sort of fruity body wash (probably from their own bathroom, Aziraphale is addicted to Lush sales), and he presses his face into his head, sighs and brings a hand up to tangle in unbrushed red hair.

"I'll dust the shop later on."

"Mm," Crowley hums, and Aziraphale knows he's not going to be doing much of anything today if the demon has anything to do with it.

**Author's Note:**

> uh i just be writing + don't come for me w the titles i can't do titles i just take song lyrics


End file.
